Charms - Question Mark

Circa 2001

It was raining the morning of my first abortion. Each drop landed electric on my skin, lighting up the weight of my intentions. I scrubbed the static off my arms as we walked into the diner.

I was sixteen and visiting my mother in Arlington. It took her less than an hour after my plane landed to realize I wasn't okay, and she gently pressed me until I broke down. I tried to blame it all on my broken question mark necklace that had snapped while I was loading my luggage, but the truth followed. Once we arrived at the house, she got to work coordinating appointments for the next day. I wouldn't be getting the procedure at home in Massachusetts. She wanted it done now, under her care. My inclination to argue was suffocated by a desperate need to put the whole affair behind me.

Our waitress sat us at a dingy table and handed out laminated menus. I found it impossible to decipher the hieroglyphics on the page. The chair beneath me felt like a relic ready to collapse. The table held artifacts from a civilization I hardly remembered taking part in. I closed my eyes and counted down from ten, tenuously grounding myself in whatever reality I could cling to. I opened my eyes and found myself staring at a washed out photograph on the menu; two pancakes, two sausage links, two strips of bacon, and two eggs. I forced a grin and pointed at the picture.

"I should be decadent and order this, since I won't be eating for two after today."

My mother snorted into her coffee, attempting to hide a range of emotions. Her partner, whose company I did not appreciate, had a much different reaction. "Dammit Zani" Her eyes welled with tears as she sneered disdainfully at me. She made a production of taking deep breaths and dabbing the corners of her eyes. My guilt rapidly gave way to fury. Was it so much to ask, to have one moment for myself? In sixteen years I'd spent damn near every moment of my life thinking of others, and I knew I was built to be that way for the rest of my life. Couldn't the universe allow me to endure this trauma without carrying the weight of someone else's suffering?

Of course not.

But I could still take my moment.

I could still make it mine.

The waitress arrived to take our orders. I smiled beatifically at her.

"One egg please. Scrambled."

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"Charms" was my first writing project, written from December 2023 to February 2024.

They are a collection of memories attached to found or given objects that I've collected for over 25 years.

The stories are posted to Substack in their raw, unedited form.

Most are only a few hundred words.

The project remains incomplete.

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